


trying to get clean again

by thethinkling



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Lesbian Sam Winchester, Non-Binary Sam Winchester, Other, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Stanford Student Sam Winchester, its a mix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26274943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethinkling/pseuds/thethinkling
Summary: "Sam always liked the laundromats. They’re the same in every state and smell clean, like soap and fabric softener, unlike the endless smoked scented motel rooms. They can’t count how many hours they’ve spent sitting in these places. Zoning out watching the slow spin of the machines or doing whatever homework would never be handed in when they inevitably had to move at the end of the week."Sam goes to do their laundry. Thats it, that's the fic
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	trying to get clean again

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Dirty Laundry by Cayetana

Dean doesn’t give a shit when they tell him they’re taking the car and going to the laundromat. Things are tense between them at best right now and Sam reckons it’ll do them both good to have some time apart before they’re crammed back in the impala for another 8-hour drive.

It’s not even anything important that they’re fighting about this week, just typical sibling stuff. You finished the toothpaste, again! No, it was you! Bickering back and forth, the pressure rising like a boiling kettle. They’re just sick of each other, sick of the road, sick of the job. Sam can’t stand the way Dean chews, how he leaves his boots on when he lies on the motel beds, how he always finds a Star Trek rerun when Sam wants to sleep. But they know Dean is just as fed up as they are: Sam keeps him up at night with the glow of their laptop, Sam bitches about his music choice, Sam can’t navigate for shit. The list goes on. They’re reaching breaking point and one of them is going to snap in an explosion of fists and pent up rage. 

So, they’re going to do laundry. 

Sam always liked the laundromats. They’re the same in every state and smell clean, like soap and fabric softener, unlike the endless smoked scented motel rooms. They can’t count how many hours they’ve spent sitting in these places. Zoning out watching the slow spin of the machines or doing whatever homework would never be handed in when they inevitably had to move at the end of the week. 

Dean would usually sit with them, Dad off on some hunt, research or just out sick of his two teenage kids. He would bring his Walkman, boots tapping along steadily to whatever Metallica tape he’d brought along, keeping time with the spin of the machines. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Occasionally he’d bump Sam out of whatever they were doing and whisper theories about the lives of the other patrons. They’d spent hours together watching, talking, just sitting. 

But now they aren’t even speaking to each other. 

So, Sam leaves, shoving their and Dean’s laundry into a couple of duffel bags. They grab their messenger bag and gently shut the door behind themself, no Dean, they didn’t slam it, now alone in the cool Austen night. The sky is on the turn, a delicate bruised purple, there’s a slight breeze. Sam can actually breathe out here. They sling the bags into the backseat and drive the few blocks to the laundromat they’d seen when they had driven into town four days ago. 

\---

In Stanford for the first time in their life Sam had a washing machine. Not in their first year but after they and Jess moved in together, to their shitty little apartment. It wasn’t the nicest place, neighbours shouting at all hours and peeling paint, but it had been theirs. Cluttered with the debris of student life, notebooks, Sam’s textbooks, vases and bowls from Jess’ pottery classes. Plants they’d picked up from half price sales, stacks of paperback books, canvases Jess had painted in one of her more artistic moods. Posters of bands Sam had seen in their first year, sneakers, fancy cooking utensils sent to them by Jess’ mom that they still hadn’t found a use for. The two of them had made it their own, carving out a little bit of Stanford for themselves. 

Best of all, it came with a washing machine.

Jess laughs at them the first time they sit in front of the washer, not used to leaving their clothes alone. The second time she actually joins them, silently sliding down to lean against the kitchen cabinets, long legs stretched across the linoleum floor, linking their feet. Jess pulls out a packet of chocolate chips and the two of them pass it back and forth for the better part of an hour, watching the slow swirl of their clothes mix with soap and water. Condensation forms on the windowpanes, fogging up the little kitchen, shutting out the rest of the world. 

Jess looks a little dizzy by the time the cycle ends, she looks over at them. 

“Clothes are still there.”

“Yep.”

A pause.

“Good to keep an eye out for laundry pixies though, always taking your spare socks”

They turn around to look at Jess fully. Her face picture perfect serious, but they can hear the smile in her words. She winks. Suddenly catching her eye, they both break down, ugly laughing on their kitchen floor. Their neighbours must think they’ve finally gone mad.

Jess eventually recovers enough to stand up, clutching at her stomach. She offers Sam a hand up. They let her pull them off of the dusty kitchen floor and once they’re back on their feet, lean down to kiss her. There’s too much teeth and spit but Jess kisses back almost immediately, linking her arms around their neck, pushing them against the countertop. The two of them forget about the wet clothes that are waiting for a while. 

The third time Sam does their laundry they go out to a movie. 

\---

There’s a bell over the laundromat and it trills as Sam pushes the door open. At 8pm on a Saturday it’s pretty empty. Just a couple of college age kids arguing about an old X-Files episode and an older woman reading a detective novel. They dump their duffel bags of laundry on one of the benches and start sorting. Normally they’d have done this in the motel, but they hadn’t wanted to stay there any longer than they’d had to. 

There are enough machines free for Sam to put on two loads at once, a dark load of jeans and a lighter mix of shirts. They dump in what they hope is enough soap to get rid of some of the nastier bloodstains, though at this rate they’re going to need to hit up some more thrift stores soon. Sam’s sports bras go into a mesh bag but will have to wait for a more delicate cycle once the denim is done. 

Satisfied the laundry is sorted for the next forty minutes they reach round for their messenger bag and for -crap,they’ve left their laptop on the bed. Looking around the laundromat there are a few magazines lying around so Sam resigns themself to reading the June 2003 copy of National Geographic for the next few hours. The killer caterpillar article could at least be interesting, maybe there's a case in that. 

\---

The fire destroys everything. Their life, their partner, their clothes. All the shitty little trinkets they’d amassed as a couple are gone. Sam tries to imagine taking to the road with Dean a week ago, with Jess’ mug collection rattling around in the backseat. 

They’d have had to wrap each one up in newspaper to stop them breaking, like Jess had done when she was moving in. They remember watching her unpack each mug, loosening its layers of paper and gently unrolling it. Jess’ fingers would trace the mug gently as she recounted where she had bought it, or who had given it to her, baby pink nails tapping the ceramic lightly to emphasise the story. Once they were all unwrapped, she washed the mugs in the sink, handing them to Sam to dry. They then placed them up on a shelf that Jess could reach but wasn’t in danger of Sam accidently knocking into them. 

Suddenly there are tears rolling down their face, Sam can't stop thinking about the mugs in the backseat bumping into each other and cracking. Jess would hate it, would have hated it, seeing her collection crumble into dust. Someone forces them to sit down, pulling them away from the blaze and telling them it’s going to be okay. But it’s not, because Jess’ mugs are burning! Don’t you understand? Someone has to go get them! The person handling them gets more rough, keeping a hand on their shoulder, not letting them get up. Sam gives up, sinking into the chair, dazed. 

They still have their sneakers but even their jacket is lost, burnt up when they’d tossed it on the sofa when they’d gotten home. Sitting this far from the blaze they should be cold in just a t-shirt but there’s a weight, something covering them. Sam examines it and realises it’s a jacket, Dean’s. They don’t know how long they’ve been sitting there, they’re so out of it they didn’t even notice when he’d wrapped them in it. They pull at a loose thread on the cuff. They hope it won’t come undone, it would be a pain in the ass to repair and Dean will probably chew their arm off if they rip it. 

\---

A beep pulls Sam out of killer caterpillar haze, unlikely to be of less than natural origins, and alerts them their first loads of laundry are done. They get up to flip the loads, moving the soaking mass of jeans to a free dryer. They thread a handful of quarters into the machine and repeat the action with the shirts. None of their or Dean’s clothes are fancy enough to actually require being hung out to dry. Only the FBI suits go to a dry cleaner on the few occasions they’re actually worn. That's the first rule of life on the road, you can’t own anything delicate, it’ll get wrecked soon enough.

In the time that’s passed the college kids have left. The lone woman sits on, book abandoned and nodding off. Sam continues to shovel laundry into the machines, fishing out more quarters. At last they sit back on the bench, another forty minutes until anything needs to be done. They let the thick air of fabric softener lull them into a sort of doze. Their back is to the wall looking out towards the door of the laundromat, ready in case something happens but the air is heavy. Maybe it’s the heat from the machines making them so sleepy. 

\---

Within three days it's obvious that Sam needs new clothes. 

After being checked out at the hospital, slight smoke inhalation but nothing serious, Dean pulls them to a motel. Sam lets themself be pulled, they have nowhere else to go after all. They sit down on the bed closest to the door and set up to have a serious staring competition with the wall. Dean just sighs as he comes in, dumping his duffel on the other bed. He kneels in front of Sam and starts undoing their sneaker laces. 

“I’m not a baby Dean, I can take my own shoes off!” they protest, trying to pull away.

“Yeah well, you stink dude. I’m not sharing the room with a bonfire.” Dean finishes unlacing the sneakers and pulls them off their feet. He makes Sam stand then, dragging them to the small excuse of a bathroom. At this point Sam reasons it's easier to go along with Dean than try to fight him. They might as well try fighting the world’s most stubborn boulder. 

Before he slams the door shut, I’m not letting you out till you smell like soap, Dean passes them a stack of clothes through the crack in the door. Sam places them on the counter and begins methodically stripping. Dean is right, they do smell like the end of a week long camping trip. They turn on the shower, not bothering to let it warm before stepping in. The cold-water stings but suddenly they find they can’t stand the smell anymore. They pick up the cheap motel bar soap and start scrubbing at their skin like they can wash away the last few days, along with their top layer of skin. Idly they hear Dean turn on the tv in the other room. Sounds like a cooking show. They start soaping their hair, not caring the bar soap will wreck it, anything to get rid of the smell.

Their skin is a raw pink by the time they eventually get out, the water having since warmed up to scalding and then back to arctic. They don't recognise themself in the cracked mirror, they look small and tired, unsure. They break eye contact and turn towards the clothes Dean left. The pile unfolds to reveal a large pair of sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt. Both smell like laundry detergent and the engine oil of the impala. They didn’t realise how much they missed it until now. 

Without drying Sam just steps into the clothes. It’s easier and they find they don’t care about the small rivulets of water, running down their back and legs. It helps cool them; from the heat of the fire they swear is still scorching their skin. Their fringe falls heavy in their face, the bar soap making it dry and tangled. Dean tells Sam they look like a drowned rat when they finally emerge, they just walk past silently and collapse on the bed. Ten hours later they awake to diner food that Dean must have gone out to buy. 

The next few days they mostly sleep. Dean will occasionally push food at them or force them to take another shower but mostly he just watches them. Every time they awaken Dean’s sitting on the other bed, watching some tv show, or sitting at the creaky table, plating up food for two. Maybe Sam’s not the only one who missed their sibling over the last few years. Eventually the outside world has to come knocking though. There are funeral arrangements, insurance investigators and friends that all need their attention. 

Sam attempts to pull on their clothes when they can’t block out the responsibilities anymore and nearly pukes. The smell has only gotten more potent, after sitting in a pile in a forgotten corner of the motel. The jeans Dean lends them are hilariously short, ankles on display to the world. In a short-lived attempt at brotherly understanding Dean clearly tries not to laugh, c’mon Sammy, it’s not that bad, but one look at their miserable face sets him off. He’s howling with laughter, slapping the bed while Sam looks on, morose. They’re not quite at the laughing about it stage. Eventually Dean quiets down though and promises to drive them to a thrift shop first thing tomorrow morning. 

\---

As Sam folds the dry laundry they find themselves zoning out. It’s still warm from the dryer and soft. The fabric softener is heady, it speaks of comfort, of family, of a warm kitchen in better times. For someone who typically towers over everyone else Sam’s movements are delicate and gentle. Jeans are folded in half then into three. They form little parcels that are then stacked up in the bag, so that they don’t unravel in the journey to the motel. T-shirts are folded similarly, to an inch of their life, trying to take up the smallest space possible, the duffel can only fit so much. Everything must prove its worth to stay. Maybe it's John’s lasting influence, still making Sam act military neat to pass an inspection that will never come. 

The pile of clothes shrinks quickly, the movements repetitive and soothing that Sam doesn’t notice the change in time. It’s almost midnight and while the laundromat boasts 24 hours of operation it doesn’t mean they want to spend the whole night here. 

A new couple has come in and replaced the lone women. These two are arguing quietly in a way that makes them impossible not to overhear. Sam would give anything for a Metallica cassette right now. They shoulder their bags, making sure they packed the laundry soap they brought with them away too, and push past the couple into the night. 

Going from the warm glow of the laundromat to the cool parking lot outside feels like a punch. The overwhelming soapy smell is gone. The yellow of the fluorescents splashes out on a puddle, the neon sign, the hood of the impala. Sam pauses a moment, letting the cold night air spike in their lungs. It's fresh and sharp. Eventually enough time passes that they begin to shiver and the couple inside has finished their whispered shouting match. They slide into the car, laundry sitting stacked in the backseat. They pull out and start the drive towards the motel.

\--- 

Because Sam has some standards, they refuse to put anything on until everything’s been washed. Dean attempts to tease them but quickly relents, driving them to the first laundromat they spot. It's grungy and sad looking. The lights flicker ominously, and there’s a damp smell to the place. Sam almost wishes there was some supernatural cause, rather than crappy wiring, so they could at least feel the satisfaction of taking down some B-grade spectre. But it’s just human incompetence this time. It's surprisingly disappointing. 

Sorting turns out to be a disaster too. Sam makes an attempt, dumping the carrier bags onto the single chair in the room, trying to separate colours. But something in their brain isn’t right, this isn’t their bedroom floor, there aren’t any of Jess’ pyjamas or overalls in the mix. It’s all new and smells of mothballs. Dean strips the clothes from Sam’s hands as they hold up the shirts and jeans numbly. He tosses them into the machine all together, denim, red and white making up a single laundry soup. Sam wants to say something, to stop him before it’s too late because the colours will run! The shirts will shrink at that temperature! But they look over at their brother. The cool white fluorescents make him look pale, washed out, young. They don’t have the heart to fight him, it’s not like it’ll matter. It’s all second-hand clothes after all, they’ve already been through the wringer at least once. 

They let themselves sit and be watched over, knowing that push comes to shove they’d do exactly the same for Dean. The machines hum out of sync while steam wafts from out of a dust steeped vent. Somewhere in the back of their mind Sam wonders what they and Jess would be doing tonight, if things were different. 

\---

“Here’s your laundry, jerk.” They toss the bag at Dean’s head. Because they’re a good sibling it only clips his shoulder. Dean clearly recognises this as the attempt at a peace offering it is, as he doesn’t immediately try to throttle them. 

“Bitch.” He nods in their direction, in a friendly sort of Dean way, from where he’s sprawled out on one of the motel beds, “now shut up, your favourite episode of the X-Files is on.”

**Author's Note:**

> 3000+ words later who thought I'd be writing Supernatural fanfic in 2020? ...certainly not me


End file.
